


Ritual

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Bloodplay, Community: sherlockkink, M/M, Non Consensual, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even now, Coward thinks, Holmes is taking what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt: _one of the watchers of a sex ritual being turned on and not being able to fap until afterwards._

His mouth is dry.

Here, in the damp, by the flickering of candles, he is watching, he is bearing witness to his lord's ceremonies. Blackwood is a shadow against the flames, and beneath him, Sherlock Holmes is pale flesh and broken bones and bloodied skin. This is how he has wanted to see that wretched man, stripped, beaten, _broken_. Coward can barely tell Blackwood how much he hates Holmes, how much he wants him to pay, how much he wants him as humiliated as he was, when they clapped him in handcuffs and led him away. He'd thought Blackwood was dead; he should have had more faith. He wouldn't doubt his lordship again.

And this… this was Blackwood's gift to him. A gift for his continued loyalty. Holmes, destroyed before him, inch by inch, slowly, surely, sweetly. He shivers; whether it is from the chill, or fear, or arousal, even he cannot tell. Blackwood is whispering, a mixture of Latin and Egyptian and some other language Coward thinks must only be spoken in hell. Blackwood's hands slip over the trembling skin of Holmes' back, spread before him on the altar, slick with the blood he uses to trace symbols on Holmes' flesh; Watson's blood. They'd gagged Holmes when they grew tired of his snide comments and trite observations, which had only made it more amusing to listen to him as they used up his companion first, slicing the same symbols into Watson's trapezius, down to white bone, the only white thing left. It made it all the more delightful that Holmes knew exactly what he was in for, having watched Watson suffer it first.

Watson's body is tumbled to the side, crumpled on the dirt beside the altar where Holmes cannot help but see it. He could close his eyes, but Coward knows he won't; not after the way he made himself watch Watson's death. Blackwood slicks himself, the symbols completed, and it is time for Coward to join the chant, his voice tenor against Blackwood's deeper hiss. Something trembles in Holmes' eyes at the first stroke, and Coward moves fast enough to catch the first tears in his cupped palm as Holmes begins to cry. Coward is so hard he can hardly breathe; he wants nothing more than to shove his cock into Holmes' mouth, choke him on it, feel that throat convulsing around him as Holmes is blinded by tears. He wants this; but Holmes is Blackwood's, and he will settle for the taste of Holmes' tears as he raises one wet hand to his mouth.

Blackwood is fucking Holmes roughly now, hard, sharp thrusts that jerk him against his bindings, all while calling on demons and devils and spirits of darkness to grant him power, more power, in return for this feast of blood and sex and despair. Coward watches the glitter of his eyes, and wonders how it would be possible for Blackwood to need more power. He is already so powerful that death cannot stop him, so powerful men cannot look at him, Coward can barely look at him, and he would do anything for him. He wishes he was the one under Blackwood, the one writhing under his touch, the one open and violated. Even now, he thinks, Holmes is taking what he wants.

He is waiting for it, waiting for his lord's command, and at last it comes, the shake of Blackwood's arms conveying the order, the tightening of his back screaming _now_ as he comes, spilling his seed into Holmes' unworthy body, and Coward moves the knife, the copper tang of blood from Holmes' neck mingling with the musk of semen. Holmes bubbles out his last breath into Coward's hands, a wet exhale from mouth and neck. Blackwood stands, his chest smeared with blood, shining with sweat, luminous with power, and that is the image that Coward will see when he's alone, hand on cock, desperately pumping himself, gasping and moaning and coming, but now, now, there is a ritual to complete, and so his needs will have to wait.


End file.
